


Sherlock: Aristocats Style

by PowerOfFunk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Aristocats (1970)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cats, Assassination Attempt(s), Cats, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Kidnapping, M/M, Other, catnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:06:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PowerOfFunk/pseuds/PowerOfFunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snanderson the Butler tries to kill Sherlock the Cat in order to gain the Madame Hudson's inheritance. Fotunately for Sherlock he escapes and meets the street Tom John, and together, they try to put Sherlock back in a cat's rightful place; head of the manor!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock raised his dark head from where he lay on the sofa as the man entered the room, looking for all the world as if he had been there for hours. Madame Hudson knew he liked to make a mess with the paints, but he doubted she realised that the violin playing was him.

So what if he was a cat? Did that mean he couldn't play the violin? The man who had just come in with a laden tray would certainly assume so; but then he was very dull.

Snanderson. The sole redeeming feature of that man, thought Sherlock, was that at least he could cook. Sort of.  
He pointedly turned his head away from the man as he set down the tray, scowled in Sherlock's general direction and swiftly left to get on with other. But then Snanderson was hardly an exception he thought as he heard that ridiculous lawyer of Madame Hudson's tumbling his way up the driveway.

He stood up, stretched, and leapt down from his perch on the sofa, stalking over to the creamy mixture that Snanderson had prepared for his dinner, before turning away in disgust and walking straight out the door.

Upstairs meanwhile, Georges Hautecourt had finally finished dancing with Madame Hudson and was getting out papers and discussing the old lady's will.

“So you want to leave everything to Snanderson? Stocks, shares, the house, everything?” He questioned.

“Oh no! No! No!” She cried jovially, “I want to leave everything to my beloved cat Sherlock of course; poor dear can't look after himself at all! I wish for Snanderson to continue taking care of him and then when my dear Sherlock ends his days, then Snanderson will inherit everything.”

At the same time in the basement, Snanderson was doing his laundry when he heard voices through the speaking tube. To say that he was angry was an understatement. After all the hard work he had put in, all the years of faithful service he had put in for the old bat, she was going to overlook him! For a cat no less! Not just any cat either, no.

He had never told anyone because he knew how it would sound. He knew they would just look at him strangely if he was lucky, if not then an early retirement would be in order perhaps, maybe in a lovely padded room, but he knew something was up with that cat. It was not normal, the way it looked like him with those too smart eyes. Like the damn thing was analysing him, like it KNEW what he was thinking.

They hated each other and they knew it.

His nemesis was a cat. Outstanding.

Well he sure as hell wasn't going to lose. No, he would get Sherlock out of the way, in a less than pleasant fashion, and then it would all be his.

“Muah hahahahahahahahhah- Oh that muther f*!#er!!!” For Snanderson had just unveiled the next painstakingly cleaned shirt out to iron, only to have a cat turd roll out onto his feet.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow that furry git is GONE.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The terrible crime... of CATNAPPING!

Dull, dull, dull. Usually Sherlock would spend his time running around the streets of Paris, looking for small rodents to play with, chase, people to mess with, but tonight there had been nothing, so he had been forced to return to the mansion and try to amuse himself there.

So far it was not going well.

The drawing room was a mess, the curtains and wallpaper had been painted on with his paws then shredded mercilessly, tables and chairs had been knocked over, vases and glasses broken and destroyed.

Essentially the only things that had been left relatively unmarred were the piano and his violin. The violin because he had felt as though he might want to play it later, and the piano because there is little a cat can do, even Sherlock, to demolish a piano.

Of course that hadn't stopped him from trying.

At that moment however, Snanderson entered, carrying the usual tray of food. Sherlock pointedly rejected Snanderson but still observed him from the corner of his eye. He was frozen in the doorway, face aghast the state of the room. He should be, thought Sherlock; after all, it wasn't as though he was going to clear up this mess!

Oh Snanderson! He never learned his lesson, always coming back for more. He recovered though and sent Sherlock a withering gaze, with no consequence, with hate in his eyes but his lips were smirking.

Odd, thought Sherlock, obviously he must have heard about the will yesterday, he was doing his ironing and would definitely have been listening down the speaking tube to find out how much money he could get his grubby paws on... He must think I'm going to die very quickly, stupid Snanderson probably didn't even know how long cats lived. It would not be the first time he had shown signs of mental retardation he thought with a sigh.

Snanderson set down the tray and said nothing as he left; no doubt going to make stupid comments at people about how he thought he had just one upped a cat.

Sherlock approached the steaming bowl with little caution. Hmm, Snanderson must have done something to it, but what? Poison was definitely out. Even Snanderson would never be stupid enough to poison the only other beneficiary to a will that had been made not a day ago, at least not with Madame Hudson still alive to change her wishes.

It didn't smell any different than usual he thought. Well done Snanderson, you almost got away with it. But no, the most likely added ingredient was some unpleasant form of laxative. Yes, that was definitely something that Snanderson would think was a smart, and HILARIOUS thing to do.

Well, Sherlock hadn't eaten anything yesterday, and he had nothing better, so he started eating. After all if there were any unpleasant results tomorrow, he knew EXACTLY where he would be leaving them.

Snanderson smirked quietly to himself as he went about his daily chores. “Stupid cat,” he muttered to himself. “Thinks he can outsmart me! Well tonight, I'll get my revenge, and my money!”

Later, Sherlock had fallen asleep in his basket for once located in front of the drawing room fire, one of the few warm spots available on this cold winter night.

He didn't wake up as a dark figure crept into the room and lifted the basket off the floor and out to the barn. Not hearing Sarah the horse whimper quietly at what she saw. He didn't wake up as he was lowered into the side car of the motorbike, not when the engine spluttered into life and Snanderson nearly crashed it on the deserted streets of Paris.  
Mycroft slept deeply in his pile of hay. Not-Anthea close by. It didn't matter that they were out in the open, he controlled this farm, he knew everyone and everything that happened for miles. He was untouchable.

A noise woke him. It was quite far away but approaching fast, a motorbike, a 1912 Ford by the sound of it. One of his long ears lifted up impossibly to hear it better. Suddenly Not-Anthea was there by his side, “What is it Mycroft?”  
“Shut-up! I’m trying to listen Anthea!”

“Sounds like a motorbike!” She exclaimed excitedly.

“Shhh! It's getting closer!” he put a paw on top of her head and used it to life himself up so that he could look over the top of the hay pile.

“Ouch!”

“I can see him! As I thought, he looks like an idiot. Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully.

“What? What is it?” Not-Anthea whispered sharply, not overly pleased at having Mycroft stood in her head.  
“That's a nice hat he's got there, and that Umbrella! Exactly what I've been looking for! Come on Anthea.”

Snanderson trundled along awkwardly on the motorbike, not really knowing where he was going. He hadn't really thought this plan through and had no idea what he was going to do. Was he going to drown Sherlock, or just dump him in the middle of nowhere? He wasn't sure. No, if he just abandoned him the furry prick would surely find his way back home. They weren't even that far

outside of Paris, and he had a limited amount of time before sunrise. If he wasn't back at the mansion by then even Madame Hudson would surely realise that something was up.

He saw a bridge not far ahead. Excellent, that meant a stream. He could drown the little bastard and then be back before anyone even realised that anything was wrong.

Like lightning, a farm dog suddenly appeared in the road in front of him, an old blood-hound barking angrily at him. He swerved instinctively to avoid it, careening sharply to the left.

He saw Sherlock's basket go flying from the sidecar and straight down into the stream below. Good riddance, he thought, but he didn't have long to congratulate himself as another, younger dog leapt at him from the side, a basset hound this time. It leapt deftly over him and knocked his hat clean off his head. Losing control of the motorbike at went flying off the road and into the ditch, bolts broke and the entire sidecar fell away, further down the slope.

He grabbed his Bumbershoot from where it had fallen beside him and scrambled back towards where the motorcycle lay, but dropped the Umbrella as sharp teeth bit into his rump.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Stupid mutt!” he yelled, pulling away from the blood-hound, his trousers ripping in the process, revealing a pair of heart patterned underpants.

He clambered back onto his bike and took off back the way he came as fast as he could, the dogs still chasing him until he had disappeared over the horizon.

Sherlock slept on calmly from where he had fallen out of his basket, onto the soft grass by the edge of the stream, still oblivious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet a pair of geese. One of whom is fllllaaaaaming!

As he woke slowly, he began to realise that something was wrong.

The first thing that he noticed was a groggy, cloudy feeling in his head. It was hard to think straight, that was instantly worrying. As he began to take in more of his surroundings, he realised that he was cold. He wasn't in his basket anymore. Blearily opening his eyes and looking down he realised that he was lain on something green. He could smell, what was that? Grass?

He was outside? How had that happened? The last thing he remembered was suddenly feeling very tired not long after his meal, and going to bed in his basket by the fire. Of course! How had he not thought of it! He knew that Snanderson had done something to his food and he hadn't thought of a sedative?!

Like poison, he supposed he just hadn't thought that Snanderson would DARE. Apparently he had been wrong, he thought to himself grimly.

Still feeling a little groggy, he got to his feet slowly, stretching luxuriously, his tail flicking up sharply. Never mind, he thought, it wouldn't be that difficult to get home after all. He knew Paris like the back of his paw.

Except, he thought, as he climbed out of the small dell and looked around himself, he wasn't IN Paris. He had no idea where he was. There was a road, but he didn't even know which way he had to go. He had been completely unconscious the whole way here, he hadn't been able to deduce or take in anything about the journey. How far away was he? Which direction was Paris? He wasn't sure.

Going a bit further, he noticed tire tracks that matched Snanderson's Ford motorbike by the side of the cobbled road. Mud tracked back onto the stones. There were no signs of the motorbike at the other side of the bridge. It would seem Snanderson had run into some trouble. Good, thought Sherlock. The man was an anathema to him. Just looking at him made him feel stupid, but he wasn't going to let him win. He would get home and he would rub it in his stupid face.  
He set off in what he now knew to be the direction of Paris at a trot, and heard a voice behind him.

“Where are you going?”  
Turning round he saw a light brown cat. Much lighter than his own dark fur, slightly shorter also. The other cat was definitely male, and slightly smaller than Sherlock himself, emphasised more by the shorter fur.

He was scruffy. Not like Sherlock himself who, even now was pristine. He looked like a stray, that much was obvious. He certainly hadn't been taken care of very well at any point. His tail was bent at the end like someone heavy had stood on it, he limped slightly on one of his back legs, and there was a bit missing from his left ear; scratches and bite marks marred several parts of his skinny frame.

“Paris, where else?” He answered, turning round and continuing, not seeing any need to waste any more time talking to this stranger.

“Your walking there?” The other cat had caught up with him and was trotting alongside him, matching his pace.  
“Yess!” Sherlock hissed, wanting this cat to leave him alone, he sped up. Sherlock never socialised if he could help it, not even with Madame Hudson. Certainly not with such an obviously average cat like this one here.

“It's a long way.” The brown cat said simply.

Sherlock slowed down slightly. Still not bothering to look at the other however, he asked suspiciously, “Why? How far is it?”

“Well it's at least ten miles, I can't say for sure, I've only been there once or twice, but I know an easier way to get there if you want.” The offer was left hanging in the air for Sherlock to pick up, which he, reluctantly, did.

“How?” He had stopped now, looking to the other just in time to catch the satisfied look in his eyes.

“A magic carpet of course, and it's going to stop for passengers, right, here!” he said winking, marking a cross on the floor with his claw.

“...” Sherlock replied; which is hard to pronounce let me tell you. He gave him a long look. Maybe this cat was more than he seemed. He hadn't seemed dumb enough, or mad enough to believe in magic carpets, nor mean enough to make fun of Sherlock; but... never mind. He started walking again.

The other cat matched him again: “OK, so it's not really a magic carpet but it'll get you there a lot quicker than walking, and not everyone you'll meet on this road is a helpful as me.”

Sherlock turned round to look at him again, getting annoyed now. “Is that what this is? You take one look at me and think I can't look after myself, so you do the charitable thing and help me? I don't need help, especially not from YOU, who clearly cannot look after himself. You, who obviously have never had a real home, constantly getting into fights DESPITE trying not to, and isn't close to anyone in the world. Oh, and you have a limp in your back leg from when you trapped it in a mouse trap, which is psychosomatic by the way, the wound healed at least a year ago.”

“Wow. How did you guess all of that? You never even met me before today,”

“I didn't guess, I simply observed.” Sherlock scowled with his eyes narrowed-

“That was...”

-everyone was so DULL, well that would get rid of him. Once people found out about his... talents they usually wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. People didn't like to be reminded of their own personal inadequacies.

“-amazing.”

His eyes widened at this, “That's... not what people usually say.”

Now it was the brown cat's turn to look surprised. “Why? What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

The brown cat laughed at this, and Sherlock found himself reluctantly returning the smile. Maybe  
he wasn't so dull after all.

After a moment he asked, “So what IS this magic carpet then?”

“Haha! Just you wait and see! I think I can hear it coming, get ready! I'm John Watson by the way.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John led him over to a small tree and began to climb, jumping nimbly from branch to branch with Sherlock not far behind. About three seconds after they reached the top he saw it coming over the top of the hill towards them.  
“That's a milk truck.” He said flatly.

“Yes, yes it is.”

“That's your magic carpet?”

“Yep. Get ready to jump!”

Before Sherlock could say anything else the truck was upon them and John jumped onto the ledge at the back, where the truck had fallen open.

Sherlock had no choice but to jump after him, nearly missing the narrow ledge as it sped past.

Before they knew it, they were laughing again.

Meanwhile, across town...  
Sarah the horse was worried. Sherlock was still not back. After all, it was not unusual for him to be gone for several days, but after she had seen Snanderson dumping something in his sidecar and coming back... *cough* worse for wear *cough* but still with that smug, victorious look on his face she had been suspicious. She was sure he had done something to him.

Madame had not slept a wink she knew.

Snanderson chose this moment to walk into the stable. “Morning Sarah, my pretty steed! Can you keep a secret? 'Course you can!” He laughed to himself here, “I've some news, straight from the horses mouth, if you'll pardon the expression of course,” she glared as he brought out a rolled up newspaper and began to unfurl it so that she could see. “Look Sarah, I've made the headlines! “Mysterious cat napper abducts cat!” Aren't you proud of me?”

So it was him! She thought, as Snanderson kept congratulating himself on a job 'well done'. She didn't pay him any attention until his voice suddenly turned panicked and he started yelling something about, “My HAT, my UMBRELLA!” and pranced his way from the stables.

Back on the milk float...

Sherlock sat on the back of the truck, watching the scenery fly by, mentally cataloging everything, trying to work out how far away they currently were from Paris by the states of the buildings and apparent wealth of the people they passed.

Shouldn't be too long, he thought.

He heard a loud rumbling behind him, and he turned to see John staring at him, quickly looking away. How long has he been watching me? Sherlock thought. Odd, he was usually the one who did all the watching, not the other way around...  
“If your hungry you should eat,” he told him, pulling the sheet from a large and inexplicably open tank of cream that stood near where he sat.

“Y-yeah,” he sheepishly walked over, before giving Sherlock a long look, almost confused. “I guess I hadn't realised I was that hungry.”

“Sacre bleu!” was all their warning however, before the truck braked sharply, sending John, who had been too busy looking at Sherlock to balance properly, careening into the front of the vehicle into the cab, where he managed to cling onto the back of the drivers head, knocking off his flat cap and pushing his glasses askew in the process.

The man screamed and John leapt back, leaving scratches all over the old man's face, before running after Sherlock, who had already abandoned the back of the truck and was sprinting towards the long grass, the driver hurling projectiles and abuse at them all the way.

They made it into a small cabin by the side of the train tracks as the milkman drove off.  
“What an horrible, horrible human.” muttered Sherlock.

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” John replied from beside him.

Sherlock snickered appreciatively at this comment. Yes, perhaps this John fellow was not so bad at all.  
“Why did the milkman have a wrench anyway?”

Idiot. “Isn't it obvious John?”

John just gave him a funny look that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what it was actually supposed to mean. “Come on we'd best get moving.”

“Let's follow the train track,” Sherlock suggested. They followed it for a few hundred meters before they came to a deep valley with a river at the bottom, and continued to follow the train tracks across a bridge. They had got no further than halfway across however, when they felt the bridge begin to rumble beneath their feet, trembling. Then they heard the whistle.

“It's a train! Down underneath!” yelled John, and Sherlock didn't even bother to give him a dirty look for his obvious remark, simply leaping down onto the rafters below, or tried to at least. Due to the shaking of the bridge, he missed the rafter by inches, scrabbling wildly at it with his claws, but failing to gain purchase.

“Sherlock!” He heard the yell as he tumbled down to the river below, landing with a painful splash.

He had never tried to swim before, and, not being a very instinctual cat, soon felt himself being dragged under by the strong current.

Before he went completely under though, he felt sharp teeth biting the skin on the back of his neck and felt himself being dragged through the water. He was lifted up onto... a log! A log that was floating in the water. Panting lightly for air he turned to see John, beside him on the log.

“How are you even still alive?” John spluttered, looking at him with incredulity.

“You assume it was an accident.” Sherlock bluffed. “Since it looked like we were going to have to walk the whole way I thought the river would be a good way to go. We're upstream from Paris and this will take hours off our Journey.” He finished matter of factly.

One look at John's patronising face told him he didn't believe him in the slightest.

You know the goose music? Yeah I need you to imagine it now. If you don't it won't be as fun.  
Ready? Good, let's go.

Two geese were waddling down the dirt path by the side of the stream, (A/N: Seriously, they're GEESE. Going DOWNSTREAM. Did they FORGET how to swim?) waddling downstream, one was wearing a pink bonnet, the other a blue one.

As they waddled, Pink-hat turned happily to Blue-hat and said: “What beautiful countryside Molly! So much like our own dear England!”

Blue-hat replied, “Indeed yes!”

Pink-hat: “Oh I say look over there!”

Molly: “How unusual!”

What they had seen was in fact two cats, floating downstream on a log.

Molly: “Are they trying to learn how to swim?”

Pink-hat: “Well they're going about it all the wrong way, Sir! Sir!”

“Piss Off!” Yelled the light brown cat. The Black haired cat just glared at them, before the log hit a rock and spun them round, swinging them off the log and into the water, where, tired, they both proceeded to drown a little bit.

Pink-hat giggled excitedly at this but 'Molly' chastised him. “Don't you think we should help them?!”

“Oh fine!”

Together they entered the water and swam smoothly to where the cats had just gone under and dipped their heads under the water. They surfaced at the same time before yelling “Deeper!” In a gay tone, and sticking the hinds in the air once more. This time though, they each surfaced with a cat, which they dragged over to the shallow water, allowing them to pull themselves back onto dry land.

“Th- thank you,” spluttered the light brown cat to Molly. The Black cat still said nothing.

“Of course my dear! But first, introductions! We British like to keep things proper!” She pointed to herself first and then her pink hat'd companion. “Now, I am Molly Hooper, and this is my 'sister' Jim, Jim Moriarty.”

“Eh?” Replied the lighter cat eloquently.

“I'm Sherlock and this is John. We're trying to get to Paris.”

“Oh! That's where we're going!” giggled Jim gaily. “You must join us!”

“Splendid!” said Sherlock, smiling.

“Lovely!” cried Molly, “You two bring up the rear! Now march!”

“Think 'Goose'” Jim told them happily, and Sherlock trotted after them, John not far behind, not looking very happy with the arrangement. He didn't like that 'Jim' fellow much. “And when we get to Paris you simply must come with us to meet Aunt Harry!”

“Oh kill me now...” John muttered under his breath, trying to ignore Jim flaming Moriarty's arse swinging gaily on front of his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventure continues... TO THE CAFE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why the hell am I writing this? I am at university and this is how I spend my tiem?  
> Well, nothing for it but to 'think Goose,' I suppose... FML.

'FML.' Thought John as he followed the others. Why he was still tagging along he wasn't really sure. He didn't have anything specific to do in Paris, GOD knows he didn't want to spend any more time than he had to with these Geese, especially the one in the pink hat. What was his name? Jim?

Well, anyway, it wasn't like he had anywhere else to be. He had no family after all, and no real friends; he wandered around too long for that. 'May as well make sure that this Sherlock guy doesn't die on his way home I suppose. Doesn't exactly look like a practical kind of cat...'

It was odd really, Sherlock really acted like a bit of a dick, and his behaviour towards John had been no exception, and yet for some reason John couldn't fathom, he let him get away with it. They seemed to get on though... they fit together well, despite the fact that they had only really known each other for probably less than a day.

The others were having a conversation but John wasn't really listening.

“We're going to Paris to meet our Aunt Harriet! You simply must come along!” cried Jim shrilly.

“We're meeting her at Le Petite Cafe!” chorused Molly.

“La Petite Cafe? The famous restaurant?” Asked Sherlock. “The owner there owes me a favour. I figured out how the mice were getting into his kitchen.”

This brought John back to the conversation, “And you just told him? You had a conversation with a human?” He stared at Sherlock incredulously, who in turn rolled his eyes, at least as much as a cat can.

“Of course not! Don't be such an idiot John, it's quite beneath you! No, I ate the mice. The owner was far too dull to try and waste time on explanations; but he appreciated the help nonetheless and now he gives me free food if ever I go there.”

John simply accepted this and on they went.

Nothing eventful happened for a while after that. When they reached the cafe however there was a loud commotion, and a flurry of feathers as a large Goose came flying out of the kitchen door and down the alleyway towards them.  
“Why!” Gasped Jim, “Why it's Aunt Harriet!”

The new Goose, only now noticing them shrieked in delight and stumbled up to them awquardly. “Ah! If it isn't my two favourite nieces!” She exclaimed loudly, earning a dark look from Kim, which she failed to notice.

“Clearly very heavily intoxicated,” Sherlock muttered out of the corner of his mouth to John.

“I- I'd noticed...” was all John said in reply.

“Oh! Aunt Harriet what happened to your lovely tail feathers!” cried Molly, noticing for the first time that Harriets rump had been roughly plucked, leaving visible a sore red patch of pimply skin.

“You won't believe what they tried to do!” garbled Harriet as Molly and Jim fretted over her tail. “Prime country Goose! A la Provencal, STUFFED with chestnuts, and BASTED in white wine!” She read off the menu outside the front of the restaurant where they had somehow ended up.

“Basted? She's been marinated in it!” John muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, causing the larger cat to giggle slightly.

Jim and Molly, who seemed to have totally forgotten about John and Sherlock picked up Harriet by the wings and escorted her away, laughing the whole time, about what, John had no idea...

Snanderson crept carefully into the stables, even though his squeaky shoes gave him away anyway, not that there was anyone to hear him but Sarah the horse.

She scowled at him, not that he noticed for all her efforts.

“Soon, night operation: Cat Napper will be completed! Wish me luck Sarah!” ha called before climbing onto his battered motorcycle and driving off into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant interlude for Mycroft and Anthea.

Anthea lay in her new, too small wicker basket next to the hay mound; dozing quietly. Warm and comfortable, paws twitching as if fiddling with an imaginary toy.

“Hey, listen!” Mycroft. Damn.

'Ohhhh... go to SLEEP Mycroft!' she thought to herself, 'I want to SLEEP!'

“Anthea!” he hissed, kicking her gently from his own position in his new side car bed. 'Damn, can't pretend forever I suppose...'

“...Yes?”

“Can you hear that?” He leaned up further from his stolen bed, tipping his bowler hat back further for a better view.

“Oh Mycroft it's probably nothing but a cricket bug!”

“No, it's squeaky shoes approaching...”

“Cricket bugs don't wear shoes...” Anthea puzzled to herself softly... “How could he-”

“Shhhh Anthea! Oxford shoes; size nine and a half, with a hole in the left sole-”

“What colour are they?”

“Bla-” he started before looking down at her, an amused twinkle in his eye.

“The squeaking's stopped”, he realised.

“Do you want me to call the hounds?”

“I'm the leader! I can check it out myself!”

Anthea sighed. He was probably still exited by the earlier incident. Wanting to take care of everything himself. Perhaps it was a midlife crisis? If she thought he was at all likely to do something so normal. Next he would be herding sheep and putting up shelves... cruising round town in his new sidecar.

“The noise has stopped, Mycroft go back to sleep! You have too much to do tomorrow and I'm not going to let you be grumpy at me all day just because you didn't get enough sleep!” Baring her teeth at him.

“... Fine.” He conceded. He would have put up more of an argument but he knew she was right, and he knew from experience that those teeth hurt.

Begrudgingly, he pulled his new bowler hat back over his eyes and settled back in, a childish frown on his face.

Within minutes he was asleep, snoring like an old man, with the exhausted Anthea swiftly following.

Neither noticed when the hay mound began to shift at the top; a long black rod protruding slowly.

“Bethany...” Mycroft muttered in his sleep, making the rod pause in it's movements, “shut the hell up...”

A head suddenly followed after the rod and the evil Snanderson peered down at them nervously, making sure they were still asleep before beginning to lower the rod once more.

Down, down, till the the hook caught under the brim of the hat on top of Mycroft's head.

“Give me my hat back dog!” Hissed Snanderson, “it doesn't even fit you, you're a dog!”

He slowly lifted the hat upwards, but fumbled, sending the hat tumbling down onto Anthea's head.

Mycroft reached up slowly, his head felt different.

Paws groped in the darkness, feeling nothing... his hat! Where was his hat?!

He looked around in the darkness; determined. It was probably just on the floo- “Anthea! Give me my hat!” Ripping the hat from her head, “It's MY hat! I'm the leader!”

“I never took anything from you but you're biscuits! And that was for your own damn good!” She cried, indignant.

As they both settled again, the hook crept down, to try to retake the hat. As it lifted up however, Mycroft, who had been feigning sleep, snatched it back down, looking around madly for the thief and keeping the hat held firmly to his head. Eventually relaxing enough to go back to sleep.

A hand slowly crept out of the hay bale behind him, and began to scratch under his arm.

“Mmmm...” he moaned “Ohhhh mm hho!”

Anthea began giggling softly in her sleep from her spot beside his.

“Hmmm ohhhh!”

Snanderson continued to rub Mycroft until his hands fell from his head, when he tried so snatch the hat again, but was thwarted by a sleeping Mycroft. So he started up again.

“Oh Anthea! Faster!”

“Mmmm... Im scratching as fast as I can...” she murmured, eyes still closed, leg whirring madly.

“Ah that's good!” he cried, leaning up and stretching out all four legs, allowing sinister Snanderson to come out from the hay bale and steal the hat with his teeth, still using both hands to pleasure Mycroft.

As soon as his head was back in the bale he brought his hands back, leaving Mycroft to relax back into his seat.

Snanderson, now full confidence, grinned smugly to himself and continued to collect his evidence.

He hooked the wicker basket, and began to lift Anthea slowly skywards, with her still sleeping away.

Mycroft however, did notice, as Anthea rose slowly up to his level, then kept on going!

He was still mostly asleep however, so it took a moment for even his brain to register that this was not strictly usual... maybe it was a dream? 'No, not a dream,' he though to himself as a very solid and still sleeping Anthea slid down into his bed from nowhere and began cuddling up to him.

“Mmm cosy,” she muttered as she wagged her tail, slapping him repeatedly in his now very awake face as she moved in closer. “You've been cheating on your diet.”

“Anthea!” he pushed her away, affronted, when he suddenly heard the horn on his sidecar beeping awkwardly.

Turning around he saw that someone was trying to steal his Bumbershoot!

Enraged, he yanked it back down, bringing Snanderson toppling down from his position atop the hay mound to fall on top of them.

“You!” Anthea was now wide awake as well.

Snanderson suddenly developed bladder issues.

“You're going to get it good!” She barked at him excitedly, tail wagging, ready for the chase.

To Snanderson this just sounded like unintelligible barking, but the message seemed to get through.

Snanderson dived back into the hay mound, before roaring back out on his Motorcycle, grabbing the side car with the Umbrella still inside, the cat basket already in hand and the hat on his head.

“Get back here!” screamed Anthea.

Mycroft merely narrowed his eyes at him, already formulating a plan to retrieve his beloved Umbrella.


End file.
